


Twelve Years and Three Weeks

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternative Meeting, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by When Harry Met Sally, M/M, No orgasm scene though, Slow Build, Spot the nod to WHMS, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-05-26 21:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15009908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg and Mike's lives brush up against each other, but circumstances always conspire to keep them apart, which is fine. Greg said it first - you can't stay friends with someone once you've slept together. So it's fine, because they're friends. Just friends. Until...





	1. 1995

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, thank you to siriusblue for doing all varieties of beta work on this. I'm so pleased we're on this tiny little rowboat together!
> 
> If you've seen When Harry Met Sally, you kind of know where this is heading. If you haven't, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU...I mean, you might enjoy it. Meg Ryan's hairstyles and Billy Crystal's frankly alarming power-walking tights are worth the period-typical mysogeny, I promise.  
> While this is based on the film, I have take a bit of artistic license, because Mike and Greg are not Sally and Harry. Some events are in a different chronological order. Some scenes have the roles flipped. Some scenes are verbatim from the movie (thank you, Rob Reiner and Nora Ephron).  
> WHMS is one of my favourite movies, and I love the idea of meeting someone at the wrong time, before meeting them at the right time. It’s more about the spirit of the thing than strict adherence to the movie, so relax your goof and mistake radar and enjoy the ride.

Video Interview: Mike and Greg

“How did we meet?” Mike repeated the question, looking at his new husband.

“You tell them,” Greg said indulgently.

“Well, it’s a long story,” Mike replied, though he was looking at Greg as he spoke.

“Come on,” a voice said from behind the camera, “We’re asking everyone that’s here. All the couples are gonna do it. You two have to – it’s your wedding!”

Mike shrugged. “When we first met I don’t think Greg liked me.”

“I liked you!” Greg objected.

“Not at first,” Mike replied. “You thought I’d blown up a bridge, from the look on your face.”

“No, no,” Greg corrected him. “I was working.”

“Then we met again,” Mike continued, only a tiny smile acknowledging Greg’s attempt to redeem himself.

“We did,” Greg said. “I don’t think you liked me then.”

“I don’t think I did in the middle,” Mike said, “but I did again by the end…”

“Okay, okay,” the faceless voice said again, “you’re going to have to start from the top. Greg, you tell it.”

“Right,” Greg said, leaning forward.

 

_1995_

The call came as Constable Lestrade juggled his boss’ coffee-and-pastry breakfast and his own packed lunch. It’d been years since he’d had to do the coffee-for-the-boss routine but he was hoping for a chance at promotion soon, and every little bit of arse kissing counted. Greg had just successfully lowered the assorted bags onto his desk when Wilcox – a young constable fresh from the academy – raced in, face ashen.

“Farnham’s looking for you,” she said. “Bridge collapse. Westminster. They think it’s a terrorist attack.”

Greg felt himself shudder. He took a second to breathe, then follow Wilcox to the disaster room. That’s where everyone would be assembled, including his boss. Hopefully Greg’s offering of coffee and food would ease her mind on his slight tardiness.

+++

Twelve hours later, Greg’s few minutes late were the last thing on everyone’s mind, including his own. He’d been assigned a perimeter minding job, almost a mile from the former site of Lambeth Bridge. Initially it had been miserable, cold rain dripping down his uniform collar. Now that the rain had stopped, it wasn’t too bad. Cold, but dry at least.

In theory it could have been a nightmare of small children, irritated commuters and press. In reality, he’d been given a team of fresh constables to oversee on a fairly quiet stretch, so staving off the boredom was more of an issue than anything.

He’d been taking the job quite seriously, wandering up and down his stretch, making sure his charges remembered that everyone was probably going to be more tense than usual tonight. Compassion worked a whole lot better than brute force, in his experience, and he consciously exuded a calm confidence, hoping it rubbed off.

The assignment kept him moving, but it wasn’t that interesting. Hopefully his boss would come past at some point and see him being conscientious. Couldn’t hurt, at least.

As he turned at the end of his stretch, nodding at the senior constable a little further along, a civilian caught his eye. He wasn’t doing anything particularly noteworthy, but a single male standing in the middle of the footpath looking across the police tape was always worth noticing. Greg automatically clocked his particulars – white male, brown hair, glasses, about 170cm, no distinguishing features. He was dressed casually, and Greg couldn’t help noticing how well his jeans fit. _Not relevant, Lestrade_ , he berated himself.

“Can I help you with something?” Greg asked, approaching the man. If nothing else, the conversation would be a change from having the same conversation six time with each of his six charges.

“Alright, Constable…sorry, Senior Constable,” the man replied, a twinkle in the eyes Greg could now see were a clear blue.

“Is there a reason you’re here?” Greg asked, then winced as he realised how abrupt he sounded.

“No, no, of course,” the man replied, raising a hand. “Must look odd, a man standing here all on his own.”

He extended a hand. “Mike Stamford. I’m a medical student. Hoping to get into surgery at some point, for my sins.”

Greg took his hand, smiling automatically at the sunny grin that broke across Mike’s face.

“Greg Lestrade,” he replied.

“As strange as it sounds, I was thinking about how I might be able to help. Nothing I can do now, of course,” Mike explained. “But if was a doctor on call, I’d be in the hospital, doing something useful.”

He looked almost wistful, Greg thought. He wondered instinctively what the man’s story was. Why was he studying medicine? What was it about this incident that had made him come out to stand in the street after dark, watching emergency services work? No, this behaviour was a reflection of the person, not the event. Compassion and a desire to help people, that’s what would bring someone here.

His very presence spoke volumes about Mike, Greg realised. A wave of sympathy flowed through him.

“I know what you mean.” He glanced at his young constables. “I mean, I know this is important, but it’s not the same as what they’re doing over there.” Greg waved one hand in the vague direction of the floodlights illuminating the disaster scene.

“You want to work in terrorism, then?” Mike asked.

“Well, probably not,” Greg replied. He hadn’t really had this conversation with anyone. His dream sounded silly when he said it out loud, and he was painfully aware of how much further he’d already come than anyone in his family. The last thing he wanted was to fail in front of everyone.

“I want to work in Homicide,” Greg found himself saying. Why was he confiding in this stranger?

“Well, that’s something to be getting on with,” Mike said, his eyes kind. “What’s the path like to get there, then?”

“A year or so here,” Greg told him, “then I’ll take my Sergeant’s exam and apply to Homicide Division.” He shrugged, trying to downplay the thrill he felt at the idea of belonging to Homicide. “Might take a while,” he added nonchalantly.

“It’s a slow road,” Mike nodded in sympathy. “How long have you been a copper, then?”

“Six years,” Greg replied. “Finished school, did nothing for a bit before my old man told me to choose, Army or Police.”

“Good grief,” Mike replied, still smiling. Greg felt his heart do a slow flip at the sight. Mike wasn’t classically gorgeous – but then, who was – but the smile was lovely, lighting up his whole being. He had a gentle nature, Greg could see it, and it was undeniably attractive.

“What about you?” Greg asked, hoping for an insight into this remarkably lovely young man.

“Medical school for the next few years, then I’ll be bottom of the ladder for a while. Hopefully at a hospital where I can convince someone I’m worthy of applying for the surgery program.”

His eyes had lit up as soon as he’d started talking, and Greg noticed how animated he became. Medicine was clearly something he loved, and the hard work and long hours ahead did not seem to daunt him in the least.

It was incredibly attractive, Greg thought, rueing his choice of profession for the first time. Probably not a job where you could pick someone up, he thought ruefully as he tried to downplay the spark of interest he felt. Ah, well.

“Plenty of kissing up, then,” Greg said, grinning. “I’m on that path myself. Hoping my boss remembers my name when the exam comes around.”

“Absolutely,” Mike replied, returning his grin. “Kissing up is an important part of medicine, you know.”

The word ‘kissing’ was a mistake, Greg realised, because now he was thinking of kissing and Mike and that was…

“At some point I’ll hopefully save someone’s life,” Mike said, interrupting Greg’s alarmingly kiss-centric thoughts, “thought I can’t help wishing I was able to help today.”

They both looked once again over at the floodlit scene. Greg was trying to rein in his mind, which had taken the kissing idea and was sending thrills through him. It took him a second to notice, but the silence which had fallen was companionable. Greg was surprised at how easy it was to stand here with this man, in the cool night air. The man in whom he’d confided his dream, no less.

“Too many cooks,” Mike said belatedly, glancing back at Greg, who felt a smile grow at the old fashioned phrase.

“Me mam used to say that,” Mike told him, and Greg was fascinated by the crinkles that formed around his eyes as he smiled once again.

“Senior Constable!”

Greg turned automatically at the sound of his rank. To his relief it was one of his constables – not his boss – and from the look on the face of the guy she was trying to mollify, she needed help now.

“Gotta fly, nice to meet you,” Greg threw over his shoulder at Mike, part of him regretting having no time to say a proper goodbye, the rest watching and assessing and wondering how to best deal with the man in front of him.

“Can I help you, sir?” Greg asked. As he expected, the man did not wait for him to finish, but started hurling abuse about how this street wasn’t even affected by the bridge collapse, and why did he have to go all the way around when his flat was just there. As usual, the shouting rambled quite a way from the initial complaint, and when he didn’t allow Greg to speak, the officer simply waited. Even the loudest storm needed something to rage against, and someone who simply stood still and made no effort to speak was a difficult target.

“There’s nothing I can do to make you feel better about this, so you have two choices.” Greg told him when he finally stopped. He waited to be sure the man was listening.

“You can either try and cross this police line, and I’ll arrest you, take you down to the station and process you, and make sure we dig up every other thing we might have to talk about. Fines, warrants, outstanding debts of any kind. The other option is that you let us do our job, you walk the ten minutes around this perimeter fence, and you go and sit in your comfortable sitting room with a cuppa. Something we can’t do for a good few hours yet.”

Greg watched, waiting for the options to sink into the man’s obviously thick skull. When he finally realised what Greg was saying, his scowl deepened, but he turned to walk away.

“Just stay calm and let them shout themselves out,” Greg told the young woman standing beside him. “They can’t shout forever. And when they stop, you give them the options, and let them make their choice. Try to make one sound a lot more inviting than the other.”

“And what if he’d crossed the line, sir?” she asked.

“You heard. I would’ve taken him back, and if he’d behaved, I’d’ve let him out in four hours. If he hadn’t, I’d’ve done what I said I would, and dragged his name through every database. I bet I’d have found something in there.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” she replied.

“No problem, Williams,” Greg said. “Good job.” He saw her beaming, and remembered what it was like when someone remembered his name. It was the kind of thing he had resolved to do when he got to any position of responsibility. He wanted to be the kind of boss people wanted to have.

Looking back, he saw that Mike was still standing there, watching him. Greg wondered for a moment what would happen if he did go back and talk to him, break protocol and ask for his number…

As he flirted with the idea of professional misconduct, Mike smiled and raised one hand in farewell. Greg was disappointed but relieved the decision had been taken out of his hands. He’d have wasted all those morning coffees for his boss if he’d been caught trying to pick up while on duty.

When Greg finally rolled into bed several hours later, he was grateful he’d not had to arrest anyone for crossing the line. Before he drifted off, the last thought he had was of kind smiling eyes and a Northern accent. What a pity he’d gotten away, Greg thought sleepily.


	2. 2000

_Five years later…_

Greg wasn’t sure yet if he was pleased to have been sent on this training course. He was the only DS to have been sent, so there was that; someone thought he was worth investing in. On the other hand, the red eye to Newcastle was nowhere near as glamorous as it sounded – and it sounded shite.

He stumbled out of the taxi, hoping for a bit of a kip between London and Newcastle. Knowing he was returning the same day, and would be expected to be back at work first thing tomorrow, made him want to weep. It was going to be a long, long week.

Walking through the airport, Greg glimpsed a face that brought him up short. He did a double take, but it was gone, lost in the crowd. It had been years since he’d thought of the kind young med student he’d chatted with at that perimeter scene. The date came to him automatically – linked to the act of terrorism, not the conversation – and he marvelled at how long ago it was.

Greg daydreamed a little, recalling the man’s name and ambitions as he boarded the plane automatically, finding his seat and getting settled. Perhaps he’d been more memorable than Greg gave him credit for.

It wasn’t until the person sitting in the seat ahead of him started speaking to the woman across the aisle his ears pricked up.

“Can I help with something?” he asked the woman, who was trying to settle two small children.

“I think we’re fine,” the woman answered. The people sitting beside her were also helping, but the limited space was making it all quite cramped.

“Too many cooks, as me mam used to say,” the man replied, and the flash of smile that accompanied it made Greg’s tentative smile burst into full brightness.

“I hope you’ve kissed up enough to be in the surgery program by now,” he said, leaning forward to speak to the man before him.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, turning to look at Greg.

“Lambeth Bridge collapse, nineteen-ninety-five,” Greg said. “You were standing at the perimeter…”

“The copper!” Mike said, pleasure blooming in his face. “I’m so sorry, I don’t remember your name…”

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Of course. Mike-”

“Stamford. I remember,” Greg told him, feeling his face flush as he tipped his hand a little.

“Do you two want to sit together?” the man next to Mike asked.

“That’s very kind, thank you,” Mike replied, and Greg grinned. He switched seats, looking over to Mike.

“So how’re things?” Mike asked. “Still with the Force?”

Greg grinned. “Promoted a few years back, actually.”

“Congratulations!” There was genuine pleasure in Mike’s voice, just as Greg remembered. “So you’re a Sergeant, then.”

“Detective Sergeant, actually,” Greg admitted, feeling himself flush as Mike’s smile widened even further for him. “Homicide.”

“You did it,” Mike said. His eyes were as kind as Greg remembered, and he marvelled that there had been periods in which he had not thought about this man. As surreal as their first meeting had been, it had also been a comfortable easy conversation, no games or second guessing himself.

“Yeah,” Greg replied bashfully. “So they’re sending me to Newcastle for the day. Training day.”

“You’ll only be here for the day, then?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, back home tonight.” Greg replied. “What about you, what are you up to?”

“I did graduate,” Mike told him, “but I’m working in Newcastle now. Just heading back up after my cousin’s wedding yesterday, actually.”

“Still chasing the surgery dream?” Greg asked with a smile.

“Oh, no,” Mike said with a valiant attempt at returning Greg’s smile. Greg was surprised to see the sadness behind them. “Wasn’t cut out for it, in the end. Hoping to finish my rotations, then back down to London, maybe get a job back at St. Bart’s.”

Greg nodded. “That must be disappointing,” he ventured.

“Not what I’d planned, but not the end of the world,” Mike said in a voice that made Greg think it might actually be a little bit the end of the world.

“Probably didn’t kiss up enough,” Mike said.

“When is it ever enough?” Greg replied with a wry grin. He was relieved to see Mike smile again.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “At least now I can focus on my rotations.”

“Are you from Newcastle?” Greg asked.

“I am,” Mike replied.

“So catching up with old friends, then?” Greg said.

Mike grinned a little. “Not too many of those left. Mostly moved away, they have.”

Greg nodded sympathetically.

“I do keep up with a few old girlfriends,” Mike said.

Greg ignored the swoop of disappointment at the word ‘girlfriends’. “Really?” he asked.

“You sound surprised,” Mike said, grinning.

“Well, yeah,” Greg said. “You can’t be friends with someone you’ve slept with.”

Mike looked at him in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t be friends with someone you’ve slept with.”

“Well, I have several friends I’ve slept with,” Mike said, his huffy attitude more amused than offended, Greg was relieved to see. “Men _and_ women,” Mike added pointedly.

“I don’t think it matters,” Greg said thoughtfully, though the admitted bisexuality made his stomach swoop with nerves. “If you’ve slept with them, the sex always gets in the way.”

“What?” Mike said.

“It always gets in the way. One of you is always thinking about how you’ve seen the other person naked, so the friendship never works.”

“That’s not true,” Mike objected.

“It is,” Greg said, smiling at Mike’s reaction to this whole conversation. “How many friends would you say you have that you’ve slept with?”

“Three or four,” Mike said defensively.

“Nope,” Greg said. “None.”

“But I’m not thinking about sleeping with them,” he protested.

“Then they’re thinking about sleeping with you,” Greg said as though it was obvious.

“No they’re not.”

“Yes, they are,” Greg said in a slightly bored sounding sing song. “Ask them.”

“I can’t ask them,” Mike said, aghast.

“Well it’s true,” Greg said, grinning. “Do you talk to them the same as your other friends? Ask about who they’re seeing, tell them about who you’re seeing? Or is it all ‘how are you, good, how’s the family, good, we should catch up again’?”

Mike looked at him, disconcerted, and Greg knew he was right.

Right, perhaps, but not winning himself any points. Time to be less of a prat.

“So do you have family in Newcastle as well?”

Mike shot him a look that said he knew Greg was changing the subject but he wasn’t going to object. “It’s just me mam still living here.”

“Bet she loves having you around again.” Greg offered, trying for something a little less contentious than his previous comments.

“Oh yeah,” said Mike. “Can’t you tell?”

Greg frowned.

“I’ve put on a few pounds, no need to pretend you didn’t notice,” Mike said, eyes twinkling.

Reflexively, Greg ran his eyes over Mike. It was hard to tell while they were sitting down, though his face was certainly a little rounder than he remembered. Not that it mattered to Greg. The connection he remembered was still there, the eyes still kind, the smile as warm and genuine as it had been that night.

“It’s been a while,” Greg replied diplomatically. “I can’t believe I’ve started going grey.” He ruffled his hair, ignoring the fact that he wouldn’t admit the grey to anyone else.

“It’s distinguished,” Mike replied with a smile.

 The hostess came around with the trolley, interrupting their conversation. They each opted for coffee over tea, and their conversation lapsed into football and news.

Chatting with Mike was easy. He was a good listener, a thoughtful respondent to Greg’s questions. When the ‘fasten seatbelts’ sign came on, Greg was disappointed.

“So are you in London much?” Greg asked. They’d landed in silence, Mike’s fingers curling over the end of the armrests as the wheels bounced, then settled on the tarmac. He let out a breath, glancing over at Greg.

“Landings aren’t my favourite,” Mike admitted. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I just wondered if you were in London very often,” Greg said, his face flushing now that he had Mike’s full attention. “We could grab a pint, or a meal or something.” It was as awkward as it was possible to be, he thought. What if he says no? We’re stuck next to each other ‘til the plane empties.

_Terrible timing, Lestrade._

“Ah, I’m in Newcastle for good now,” Mike said, the smile fading from his face.

Greg was simultaneously disappointed in his response and strangely satisfied that Mike shared his disappointment.

They collected their things and disembarked, an awkward silence between them in amongst the noise of the other passengers and the airport. As Mike lead the way through the narrow corridor, Greg couldn’t help but notice that if he had put on any weight, it certainly sat well on him. Nothing there Greg would protest against running his hands over.

“Well,” Greg said, as they reached the taxi rank, “it was good to run into you again, Mike.”

“Yes,” Mike said. For a moment Greg wondered if he was going to say something else. “Well, goodbye, Greg.”

They shook hands, the warm contact a jolt. Greg found himself looking into those blue eyes, more reluctant to let go than he could explain.

“Look me up if you’re in London again,” Greg said. He didn’t really think it would happen, but he could hope.

They smiled once more, and Mike turned, walking towards the baggage claim. He’d walked all the way out to the taxi rank, Greg realised, and now he’d have to chase down his bags. And irrational urge to chase after Mike, blow off his day and ask him for a coffee, but Greg pushed it down. Meeting on a flight after all this time? Living in separate cities, both finally advancing in jobs they’d worked towards for years? Hardly the moment for a grand romantic gesture.

He sighed. Not that he was really open to romantic gestures when it came to Mike. Absently pulling out his phone, he checked his messages. One from Laura. Guilt washed through him as he read her words.

 

_Have a great day! Hope you learn loads, DS Lestrade ;) xxx_

 

He’d forgotten about her entirely. She would be working today, and waiting for him when he arrived home tonight. She was his future. They’d agreed not to get married, but she wanted to spend her life with him, despite his lack of real ambition - her words, not his. That was meant to make him feel better, but somehow it only made him feel unsettled.


	3. 2006

_Six years later…_

Greg shivered in the sudden gust of cold air. Just when he thought winter was definitely over, this cold front dropped right onto London. Impulsively, he ducked into a second hand bookshop, more for the warmth than the books. He was at a bit of a loose end today; days off were rare enough and he was almost waiting for his phone to buzz, calling him into work. The walk had been spontaneous and he’d ended up in an area of London he didn’t often visit, which wasn’t a bad idea, all things considered. The usual haunts still had memories attached, and if there was one thing Greg wanted to do today, it was get away from his life for a while.

Anywhere he and Laura had never been was a blessing.

The bookshop was a good idea in the end. It was the kind of place that sold coffee, and encouraged you to sit and look at the books before you bought anything. Finding a book on unsolved crime in 19th century London – nothing new, but interesting enough to hold his attention – Greg settled in an armchair, resigned to pass the afternoon quietly. For the first time that day, he wasn’t inwardly hoping work would call to give him something to do.

“Excuse me,” a voice came, apologetic. Greg looked up. The woman in front of him was after a book at the top of the nearby shelf. Greg reached it for her, ignoring the flirty chatter with which she peppered him. Part of him was gratified by her attention, but if he was honest, he just wasn’t interested right now.

When she’d finally walked reluctantly away, Greg sighed. As he made to sit down he glanced to his left and froze.

It couldn’t be.

Blinking, he looked again, wondering if his mind was playing tricks.

It wasn’t.

He was definitely looking at a familiar profile. Standing beside the ‘Personal Growth’ sign was a be-spectacled face – rounder than the last time they’d seen each other, but still recognisable. He was flicking through a book with a half-hearted interest.

As Greg’s internal debate ramped up – _go over, don’t go over, hide, say hi_ – the decision was taken out of his hands. The book was replaced and Mike Stamford turned his head, his eyes flicking to Greg with a precision that told Greg with certainty Mike knew exactly where he was standing.

When their eyes met, Mike’s eyes widened. _Sprung_ , Greg thought, an automatic smile ghosting over his face. He watched the embarrassment flow through Mike’s features. He didn’t move, wondering if Mike would come and say hello or bolt. When Mike’s eyes dropped, Greg’s heart followed it.

He knew which he wanted, and the strength of his wish took him by surprise.

Greg held his breath as Mike shifted his weight, obviously considering his options. His shoulders rose as he took a deep breath. When he turned his body, Greg exhaled. Doubt and nervousness clouded the blue eyes when they met Greg’s. Taking a deep breath of his own, Greg smiled the most encouraging expression he could muster, willing Mike to walk over. After a moment that felt like a year, Mike took the first halting step towards Greg’s reading nook.

“Hi,” he said, and the single word was more welcome than anything the blond woman could have come up with.

“Hello Mike,” Greg replied warmly. The blue eyes cleared. There were a few more crinkles when he smiled; definitely more than a few extra pounds around his middle. Whatever he looked like, though, he still exuded the same kind calmness Greg remembered. Something sparked in Greg as they looked at each other.

“You’re back in London, then?” Greg asked. He winced at the clumsy question.

“Back at Bart’s now.” Mike replied. “Bit of teaching, few shifts in the ER.”

Greg sensed there was long story there, something you didn’t regale to an almost stranger in the middle of a bookshop.

“Do you want to get a coffee?” Greg blurted. His heart stuttered when Mike’s face lit up at the suggestion.

“Go on, then,” Mike replied. They walked through the narrow stacks over to the barista, ordering coffee and seating themselves at the last tiny table on the lino’d floor.

“And what about you?” Mike asked. “Day off in the middle of the week?”

“No rest for the wicked,” Greg replied with a smile.

“Ah, I can’t see you as a wicked one, Gregory,” Mike said his tone gentle chiding.

“Gregory?” Greg murmured.

“Sorry,” Mike replied.

“No, it’s fine,” said Greg. “Just…unexpected.”

“Like meeting me in a bookstore?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Greg said. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come over or not.”

“Neither was I,” Mike admitted. He toyed with the sugar packets. “I wasn’t sure if you and the blond were here together or not.”

“Not,” Greg said tightly. He knew he was being as reticent about his former relationship as Mike perhaps was about his job, but it was still a little too raw for casual conversation.

“And that’s why I came to say hello,” Mike murmured, sitting back and blessing the waitress with a smile.

“Right.” Greg said, smiling into his coffee. Something about this time felt different. He wasn’t on the clock. Mike wasn’t living at the other end of the country. They were both older, more settled.

And he was single. He had no idea how Mike was fixed, but for once he actually had the time (sort of) and freedom to…make friends. To begin with, at least.

“I’m glad you did,” Greg added, when the waitress had moved on. There was a silence while they each sipped at their coffee.

“So you’re still at Scotland Yard?” Mike asked.

“Yep,” Greg replied. “I should be studying for my Inspector’s exam, really.” He shrugged, hoping Mike saw his reluctance to talk about his lack of motivation.

“Slacking, Detective Sergeant?” Mike asked warmly. “Shouldn’t you be kissing up to someone?”

“It seems my skills have waned lately,” Greg replied, wrinkling his nose. “My current boss is…uninspiring.”

“I’m sure you’ll sail through on your skills, Greg,” Mike said confidently. “When’s your exam?”

“Next month,” Greg told him. “I’ve done most of the work, just can always do with a bit more revision, you know?”

“I survived medical school, remember?” Mike replied. “Revision and work and two minute noodles.” He smiled a little sadly at the memory. “Long time ago now.”

“Yeah, the years have started catching up,” Greg grinned, ruffling his considerably grey hair. “At least I look the part.”

Mike laughed at the little self-deprecating joke, and Greg felt warmth bloom through him as they talked about their lives. There were gaps of course – nothing too heavy at 2pm on a Wednesday – but it was easy. Mike was easy. Comfortable.

There were no poorly disguised jokes at his expense, no avoiding topics so they wouldn’t have an argument. Even without the really serious conversations, Greg found himself being more open than he had been in a long time. Mike was still a great listener. He had the gift of making you feel like the most interesting person on the planet, Greg thought to himself. And he clearly had no idea how attractive he was.

They’d long since finished their coffee when Greg’s phone pinged. He winced and checked it, sighing at the notification from his boss.

“Shit, Mike, I’m sorry,” Greg said, stowing his coffee and standing up.

Mike stood too, his smile still easy and genuine. “No problem. We’ve had a right lovely time, haven’t we?”

Greg nodded, the tight knot that had appeared in his chest easing. Mike wasn’t going to throw a tantrum at his sudden exit from their conversation.

The concern must have still been evident on his face, because Mike dropped one hand on Greg’s arm as they walked out. “It’s the lot of an ER doctor too, Greg. I’ve been there. Not a problem.”

They stood outside for a moment, the wind still strong.

“Good luck next month,” Mike smiled.

“Maybe we can meet for a drink sometime?” Greg asked.

“Sure,” Mike replied. “Can’t say I’ve made too many friends since moving back to London.”

_Ah. Friends. Fair enough._

“Great,” Greg said, fishing out a card and jotting his personal mobile number on the back. “Give me a call, then?”

One last smile – one last look at those _eyes_ – and Greg turned to stride down the street, hoping like mad he’d get a cab in the next five seconds.

For the first time in weeks, he wished his phone hadn’t rung.

But Mike wanted to be friends. Well, that was fine. There had been so long since their first meeting, Greg knew he and Mike barely knew each other, not really. And Greg couldn’t say his life was overflowing with friends either, especially after recent events.

Friends would be good. He and Mike could be friends.

 

_Seven weeks later…_

“Right, Mike?”

“Alright, Greg.”

Greg ordered a pint, the same as Mike; they settled themselves at the bar.

“So, how did it go?”

Greg wrinkled his nose. “I never think it went well. I bloody hate exams.”

“The practicals are better, right?” Mike smiled.

“Yes,” Greg said in relief. “I’d rather show I can do it, you know?”

“Yes,” Mike said, with the air of someone with first-hand knowledge. “Medical exams were the same.”

They talked easily for a while about exams, the pros and cons of written exams vs the necessity of demonstrating the practical application of skills.

For the umpteenth time, Greg was reminded how much he and Mike had in common. Their chosen career paths were more similar in a lot of ways than he had first realised. Mike could empathise with a lot of the more challenging aspects of his job; medicine had exposed him to difficult situations, shift work, and people on the worst days of their lives. It had been his sole focus, taking over his social life in the same way policing did for Greg. His empathy was real, but it was also borne of a first-hand understanding of the challenges Greg faced.

They’d fallen into a habit of texting each other throughout the day and night. The medium suited both of them, with their inconstant jobs. The ease with which Mike accepted his erratic schedule and regular tardiness was unexpected, although they were both as bad as each other.

It was one of the things Greg liked most about the friendship that was developing. Mike was by nature understanding and empathetic, and Greg found himself displaying the same characteristics more and more. They were finding their balance, and Greg thought it was as easy as falling asleep. There was no drama here, no need to fit Mike in around work or feel guilty when he worked late.

They fit each other around their respective work, and they both worked late. It was a nice change from the years of stony silences, recriminations, and eventually, empty rooms when he came home close to midnight.

He was well shot of Laura, Greg kept telling himself.

Greg had learned that Mike was now teaching part-time at Bart’s and supplementing his income by being on call several nights a week in the ER. He didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t what he’d been dreaming of when he and Greg had met all those years ago. The disappointment was carefully concealed, but Greg was trained to see what other people didn’t. Pain and disappointment hidden behind a brave face were his bread and butter. It made his chest constrict to see Mike suffering. He wondered what exactly had happened.

He wondered if Mike had had anyone to comfort him.

For all the honesty in their conversations, they hadn’t quite gotten to the point where Greg could ask either of those questions. He knew Mike didn’t have a partner, hadn’t for a while. On the few occasions they’d had enough beer to be more open about things, Mike had confided his lack of confidence in himself.

“Few more pounds here than my last boyfriend had to deal with,” he’d said jokingly, but there had been real sadness behind the jovial words. Greg hadn’t known how to comfort him, instead putting a hand on his shoulder and resting it there for a few moments. To be fair, he hadn’t yet given Mike the low-down on his recent break up, either. He wondered if Mike wondered about him. They just weren’t close enough yet to have that conversation sober.

But they were getting there.


	4. 2006 again

_Some months later…_

The first week in December was cold. Neither wanted to brave the pub, and Mike was on call, so they met at his flat for a takeaway – something quick and easy and potentially microwavable later if one of them got called out. It was nice to have someone that understood, Greg thought again, as he sat comfortably on Mike’s sofa, waiting for the delivery while Mike had a quick shower. He had a tight turn around between teaching and his on-call shift; sometimes they rang him on the dot of six pm and he was on his feet all night. Greg knew a shower was a must if he wanted to get through the shift feeling even vaguely human.

Instead of thinking about Mike in the shower, Greg looked around the small sitting room. It was almost as familiar to him as his own flat. He’d spent enough hours here; since they’d met again in the bookshop, he and Mike had been practically inseparable. The desire for more than friendship still smouldered in Greg, but he’d accepted that nothing more was on offer. Mike had made it clear when he’d accepted friendship, and Greg had to respect that.

Even though he wasn’t really dating anyone, and Mike wasn’t really dating anyone.

They’d both had a few sad first dates. Close enough now to dissect each afterwards, Mike had confided his discomfort with dating. He still had a low opinion of himself, and as much as Greg had tried to bolster his confidence, it was still difficult for him to accept the idea that someone would be interested in him.

“I’m a doctor, of course they’re interested,” he said once. “Isn’t that what people want? Marry a doctor, be rich and pampered.” They’d both laughed at that, glancing around the small flat Mike called home. Behind his smile, Greg had ached for his friend.

“At least you’ve got that going for you,” Greg had joked. “Aging copper with a head of grey hair? Not quite so high on the social desirability scale.”

Mike snorted at this. “Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

Brushing off the frisson of excitement this comment had generated, Greg replied, “Well, I guess we make a good team. The brains and the brawn, then?”

Mike had laughed, and Greg had soaked it up, and they’d turned their attention to the football. But try as he might, Greg couldn’t get rid of the tiny curl of satisfaction that his friend’s dating efforts were fizzling out. It was petty and selfish, but he knew Mike deserved someone who saw how wonderful he was, not just a big pay check (which wasn’t even the reality, anyway).

As Greg thought about his own lacklustre dates – and _not_ Mike in the shower – Mike’s phone rang. Greg glanced at it and groaned – it was the ER. He picked it up, knowing it needed to be answered, knowing Mike was okay with him taking this call.

“Doctor Stamford’s phone,” Greg answered.

“Mike?” came a female voice.

“No, this is Greg,” Greg replied patiently. “Mike’s…not available.” He’d been hoping to avoid the phrase ‘in the shower’, but the pause before he finished his sentence was almost as telling. Oops.

“Right. Well, can you tell Mike there’s been a mistake in the roster, Anja’s shown up for a shift she wasn’t down for, so we’ll take him off call tonight?”

Greg’s heat leapt.

“Sure,” he said, trying to hide the huge grin he was now sporting.

“Apologise to him for me, will you?” the woman said. “I’m Tara.”

“No problem, Tara,” Greg said, just as Mike wandered into the sitting room.

“Tara?” Mike asked with a grin.

“Apparently Anja’s shown up for an extra shift, so they’ve taken you off call and she’s there instead. Tara sends her apologies.”

Mike slumped with relief at the mention of Anja’s name then he rolled his eyes at Tara’s apology. “Anja just wants to get out of bedtime with her twins. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Me either,” Greg grinned. He opened his satchel and pulled out the movies he’d grabbed before leaving home. “No excuse not to watch this with me now.”

“Oh, God, not…”

“Die Hard!” Greg exclaimed, waving Bruce Willis’ image around. Before Mike could complain again, the doorbell rang, and there was a flurry of action as they got themselves settled on the sofa with their takeaway.

“So good not to be on call,” Mike murmured as Bruce Willis struggled off a plane with a huge teddy bear.

Greg hummed in agreement. There was always an air of anticipation when you were on call; you could never really relax. And Mike had already had a long week with extra shifts to deal with the first-snow-accident spike that always happened around this time of year. This sounded more serious than that, though.

“Need a break?” Greg asked, keeping his tone light.

Mike didn’t answer immediately, digging though his curry for a snow-pea instead.

Greg let the silence stretch – Bruce Willis notwithstanding – allowing Mike time to formulate his answer. They had become comfortable in a lot of ways, but serious conversations like this were still worth treading carefully around. Greg wondered if Mike felt the same pull he sometimes did. The curl of possibility between them.

“I never wanted to work in the ER,” Mike told him. “Do you remember the first day we met?”

“Yes,” Greg replied. “You wanted to be a surgeon.”

“Apparently I don’t have the hands for it,” Mike said, twisting his fork around his fingers.

Greg pushed all the thoughts he’d had about Mike’s hands firmly away. His eyes had twitched to the dexterous fingers as they played with the cutlery.

“Did you…what happened?” Greg asked quietly.

“I applied for the surgery program. They turned me down,” Mike said simply. The words carried a ton of unexpressed pain.

“What, right then?” Greg asked.

Mike sighed, poking at his meal. “It’s a long process. The people who make the decision are the surgeons you’ve been assisting. They’ve seen you work, watched you interact with other staff, gotten to know you.” He shrugged, a frown flashing over his face before disappearing. “Surgeons are like…gods, almost. The good ones – and most of them are very good – get to choose who they’ll work with. It’s just as much about personalities as skill and drive, I suppose.”

Greg could hear the excuses, the rationalisations Mike had been telling himself to try and heal the wound that was so obviously still hurting him.

“Had you…was there a surgeon you were hoping to work with?” Greg asked.

“Mister Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Mike said with an insincere flourish. “Not doctor, he’s far to educated for that.” The false smile dropped from his face in an instant. “Difficult to please, some say impossible to work with. He specialised in impossible brain surgery, the kind of thing you’ll try as a last resort.” Mike sighed. “I assisted him several times. Twice he even called me adequate, which was high praise indeed.”

“But he didn’t choose you.” Greg said.

“He didn’t choose anybody.” Mike corrected him. “Said there was nobody up to his standards, nobody worth spending the time training.”

“And what about the other surgeons?” Greg asked. “Surely there were others…”

“Oh yes,” Mike said. “Ten or so surgeons, each choosing one or two for the program. Out of a hundred applicants. The competition was brutal. Not everyone relied on their talents as a surgeon.”

“Kissing up,” Greg muttered.

“In the most literal of ways, sometimes.” Mike said. “Others were more…influential. Or their contacts were.” 

“I’m sorry,” Greg said. “That must have been hard.” He remembered their words all those years ago, standing on a wet street and joking about carrying coffee for the boss. How young we were, he thought to himself.

“Yeah,” Mike said, a sad smile crossing his face. “Not the easiest of days.” He took a deep breath and spoke again, this time with the determination of someone changing the subject.

“So I can’t be a surgeon, but I can be a teacher.” Mike said with a grin.

“They did?” Greg replied, his voice surprised. “Of course they did!”

Mike grinned. “You’re looking at a full time lecturer at St. Bart’s. So…”

“No more ER!” Greg cheered. He was a little enthusiastic, spilling curry on Mike’s couch, but he was too pleased to care. Mike hated the ER shifts, but part time work was just not enough to keep him afloat. Now he’d be able to drop the shifts. Greg had to admit he’d be a little jealous – shift work was part of the job he’d chosen – but he was happy for his fiend. He deserved a professional break.

“That’s great,” Greg said again. “Have you told the ER yet?”

“Nope,” Mike said.

“Poor Tara,” Greg said, arching an eyebrow.

“She’s been after me for ages,” Mike admitted. He shifted uncomfortably, the smile fading a little.

“Well, now you’ll be free normal hours,” Greg said, ignoring the pang of dismay.

“No chance of using the ER as an excuse,” Mike countered.

“True,” Greg said. He didn’t continue their banter, not entirely comfortable with talking about Mike dating people. Other people. The silence was a little awkward, and Greg found himself blurting, “I ran into Laura last week.”

“What?” Mike said. His astonishment was palpable. “Where?”

“Tesco,” Greg said. He felt a little guilty having not mentioned it earlier. “She was with Chad.”

“Chad,” snickered Mike. When Greg didn’t join him, his smile faded. “How did she seem?”

“Over me,” Greg said. “Which is fine. She did leave, after all.”

It wasn’t entirely fine but he was telling himself – and anyone that asked – that it was. He suspected Mike could see through it but was too kind to make an issue of it. Greg had told Mike the bare bones of what happened – Laura hated the hours, had an affair and left him for Chad – but never really poured his heart out.

“She did,” Mike said. Greg couldn’t meet his eyes, knowing there would be too much empathy in the kind blue eyes.

“I’m fine,” Greg said again. “Actually, I was thinking I should get out there. Go on another date. But not a blind date.”

“Not a blind date?” Mike asked.

“Well, I was thinking,” Greg said, putting his empty curry bowl to the side, “you’ve been talking about that friend of yours, John, and I know that guy Sherlock.”

“Right,” Mike said, obviously not following.

“You said John’s bi, and I told you about how Sherlock tried to come onto me that time. We need to go on a double date.” Greg said, forcing brightness into his voice. “You bring John, I’ll bring Sherlock. Kind of a blind date – I haven’t met John and you haven’t met Sherlock – but we’ll at least know each other.” He looked anxiously at Mike. “What do you think?”

Mike tilted his head and gave Greg the brilliant smile he liked so much. “Sure. We could both do with a fresh start,” he said.

“DI Lestrade,” he said, the rank still new enough to sit oddly on his tongue, “and full time professor of medicine Stamford.” He raised his glass and grinned at Mike. “How could we lose?”


	5. 2006 the double date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who has commented on this story. I've been fortunate enough to have a full inbox and less fortunate to have far less time lately, so not everyone's had a reply, but I've loved and treasured every comment, I promise. Thank you x

“Seriously, you look fine,” Greg said, rolling his eyes good naturedly.

It wasn’t a lie exactly – more a deliberate understating of the truth. Mike looked amazing, despite his worry about the double chin that was just starting to make itself known. The shirt was exactly the right shade of blue to bring out his eyes, and the blazer was cut carefully to make him look as dashing as Greg had ever seen.

It tugged at his hardened detective’s heart to see how conscious of his weight Mike was becoming. Sure, his face was rounder, and there were some love handles appearing (he couldn’t help noticing when Mike’s t-shirt rode up as he replaced clean dishes in the overhead cabinets). None of it mattered, to Greg at least – the open, genuine personality that Mike broadcast was so magnetically attractive it infused all of him with a general desirability.

Greg spent quite a lot of time pressing down his attraction to his friend, actually. He loved how involved they were in each other’s lives, but he still yearned for the extra level of intimacy romance would bring. He wanted to explore Mike’s body, find out what he could do to make those blue eyes close in bliss. Not to mention what would make them fly open as a jolt of arousal shot through him…

Not now, Greg told himself sternly. He tugged at his charcoal shirt, making sure the collar was sitting properly before adding his own blazer. They’d booked a nice restaurant and were meeting John and Sherlock there. Greg wanted to be early – nothing more awkward for their friends than arriving first and having to make the usual blind date chit chat. With any luck, Sherlock and Mike would find common ground in their mutual interest in surgical techniques and obscure disease processes.

Greg figured if he kept telling himself that, it might even be true.

As it was they were fifteen minutes early, so Mike suggested they sit in the bar for a drink first. Greg readily agreed, fairly desperate for a pint to settle his nerves. It wasn’t the idea of a date, necessarily, but the necessity of sitting right next to Mike as he and Sherlock got to know each other. Greg kept telling himself it was bad form to hope they didn’t hit it off, but he couldn’t stop the jealous spark kicking around inside his chest.

Their pints were just about done when a blond entered the bar. He looked around, a little anxious, Greg saw, until he spotted Mike.

“There’s John,” Mike murmured, and Greg sat up a little straighter, watching the man navigate across the rapidly filling bar towards them.

“Hi, Mike,” John said, shaking his friends’ hand before turning to Greg. “You must be Greg. Good to meet you.”

“Hi John,” Greg replied.

 They shook hands and Mike offered a drink, which John declined. Greg noticed he looked ill at ease, positioning himself in an odd way relative to the bar. It wasn’t until he asked John how he came to be living in London (just back from Afghanistan, second tour of duty, invalided out with a gunshot injury) that Greg recognised what he was doing. John was taking up the best defensive position he could in the unfamiliar space.

Old habits, Greg thought sympathetically. He made a mental note to let John sit in the seat with the best visibility at their table. It would be a grim date indeed if he spent the whole time looking over his shoulder.

They made small talk for a few moments until a movement at the door caught Greg’s eye. It was Sherlock, sweeping in like he owned the place as usual, coat collar turned up all dramatically against the chill.

“Sherlock,” Greg greeted him. He turned to introduce Mike then stopped. Sherlock’s eyes were sweeping up and down the doctor and Greg knew there was no point. Might as well let Sherlock do his thing. He shot Mike an apologetic look.

“Doctor, but not currently practicing, probably teaching. No current partner, though you’re half-heartedly looking and bisexual. Self-conscious about your weight, which does not detract from your kind eyes and generally compassionate air. People must consider you an excellent doctor and friend.” Sherlock said, before turning his attention to John. He’d barely taken a breath before his eyebrows rose and he asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Greg almost threw his hands up in despair. Mike looked amused but not overly offended, despite Sherlock’s frankly rude deductions. Must have been the strange bit at the end that was suspiciously like a compliment, Greg thought.

John’s answer, defensive at best, was obviously more interesting to Sherlock than Mike. His attention was focussed far more on John, eyes raking over the checked shirt and dark jacket.

“I think our table’s ready,” Greg said, hoping to break the weird intensity Sherlock seemed to be directing at John. “Shall we go over and see?”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock said absently. “Sorry, Mike, not sure this is going to work out.”

His smile was in the right general direction and showed plenty of teeth, but Greg reckoned he’d seen more sincerity in a drunk man swearing he was sober. While falling over his imaginary dragon.

“I could do with another pair of eyes,” Sherlock said to John. As John’s gaze stuttered from Greg to Sherlock and back, Greg felt himself give up.

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock all but purred, and Greg would have had to be an idiot to miss the soldier’s hand tightening on his cane, the set of his shoulders changing even from those few words.

“Right, I’ll see you later, then…sorry, Greg,” John said. He looked genuinely torn for a moment.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock boomed, already striding out of the restaurant. John startled, then followed. His gait seemed fine, Greg thought wryly, especially since he’d left his cane behind.

“Well that’s not exactly how I expected this to go,” Mike’s voice came from behind Greg.

“Yeah,” Greg sighed. He’d thought it might be possible that Mike and Sherlock didn’t hit it off – Mike didn’t seem the type to put up with Sherlock, really – but the idea of their respective dates leaving them high and dry had not even crossed his mind.

“We didn’t even make it to the table,” Greg said.

“Looks like it’s just you and me then, pet,” Mike told him cheerfully.

“Right,” Greg said, following Mike to the table.

“Just so we’re clear, I don’t put out on the first date,” Mike said, his eyes sparkling as he continued the ‘this is us on a date’ joke.

It wasn’t that funny to Greg, who swallowed bitter words back. “I’m patient,” he said. “And I respect you, Mike.” Taking a risk, he added, “I’m not only interested in your body.” Looking right into Mike’s eyes, slight smirk as though he was joking.

Which he was not.

“Of course you’re not,” Mike told him, chuckling as he looked over the menu.

Greg rolled his eyes, but let the comment slide. He was kind of hoping the date talk between them would subside now that his heart was beating so fast.

“So I’m guessing those two are going to end up joined at the hip,” Mike said when the waiter had taken their order and brought a carafe of water.

“I have never seen Sherlock look at another person like that. Ever.” Greg said. He shook his head. “I hope John’s up for a crazy life.”

“I think he’s been missing the crazy life,” Mike admitted. “He’s had a rough time of it since he got back. Living in a tiny bedsit, working a few hours at a walk-in clinic.” He sipped at his water. “Not the life he was used to in the Army.”

“Well he’ll get enough of that with Sherlock, that’s for sure.” Greg said. “Did I ever tell you how I met Sherlock?”

“No,” Mike replied.

Greg launched into a slightly exaggerated telling of how he’d come across Sherlock at one of his crime scenes, licking some evidence. It barely needed any exaggeration, really – Sherlock provided his own drama in a very real way. Mike laughed out loud when Greg explained how the new lab tech had called him Graham by mistake and Sherlock still did it on purpose, probably to piss Greg off. Greg’s mouth was moving automatically as he watched Mike’s expression change throughout the story. Every laugh, every flicker of his eyes made Greg’s heart twitch.

_Shit. Not good, Lestrade._

“So anyway,” Greg said, “I use him a bit now, on the tougher cases. His big brother’s around, gets him out of the worst of the trouble. Some kind of bigwig in the government, I think.”

“Sounds like exactly what John needs,” Mike replied warmly. “I just hope he’s not too stubborn to see it.”

Greg hummed in agreement. He didn’t know John well enough to comment. The man had certainly run off after Sherlock fast enough – maybe excitement really was what he needed.

“I assume you and John met at medical school?” Greg asked, smiling briefly at the waiter as he returned with their meals – despite the fancy names, it was basically steak and veg for each of them.

“I did,” Mike replied. “He was a year ahead of me, took me under his wing a bit in my later years, when I needed a mentor. He was heading for surgery too, so I hung on every word.” Mike’s smile dimmed a little at the mention of his previous ambition.

“Did he join up right after graduation?” Greg asked, hoping to keep the conversation on John, sparing Mike the recollection of his failed dream.

“Yes and no,” Mike replied. “They wanted a surgeon, so the Army arranged for him to fast track into a program at Bart’s. He stayed another four years there before his first tour.”

Greg nodded, chewing thoughtfully. It was typical of Mike not to hold a grudge against John, who had been essentially head hunted and graced with a fast track right into the exact position he himself wanted entry to. Testament to his generous nature.

As he was trying to think what to say, Mike spoke again.

“John was a good friend when I was turned down,” Mike said, flushing as he spoke quietly.

“There was no chance of applying somewhere else?” Greg asked tentatively. He had no idea how these things worked, but surely there were lots of hospitals?

“Not really,” Mike replied. “There are only so many teaching hospitals, and they talk to each other. I’d have had a black mark against me, so…” He shrugged, but Greg could see the tension in his shoulders as he recalled the difficult time.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said quietly. They continued to eat, each concentrating on their meal.

When they’d both finished, Mike looked at Greg. “So much for our double date, then.”

“Might have ended up being awkward,” Greg told him, “if one of us had shagged our date and it hadn’t worked out.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure I heard somewhere that it’s impossible to stay friends with people you’ve slept with,” Mike said, a twinkle in his eye.

“A wise person must have told you that,” Greg said. “Case in point: I am no longer friends with Laura.”

“Not sure she really counts, pet,” Mike replied. “Pretty sure she did more than just break up with you, then.”

“I’m over it,” Greg said, pushing out the lie as convincingly as possible. “If she wants to go out with the Chads of the world, that’s fine with me.”

Mike was silent for a long moment, and Greg found himself adding, “Maybe she’ll be happier with them than with me.” He didn’t look at Mike, not sure he could stand the compassion surely lurking in his expression.

“Ah well,” Mike said finally, smiling at Greg. “Can’t change the past. We should count ourselves lucky to be out in a nice restaurant with a handsome date. At least we know we won’t destroy our friendship tonight.”

Greg grinned. “What if Sherlock and John sleep together? He asked. “Would that affect us?”

“Not as much as you and I sleeping together,” Mike said. He smiled as he said it, but Greg heard the serious undertone.

“True,” Greg acknowledged, and he felt Mike relax a little. _Message received._

The evening had not gone anywhere near to plan, but somehow he’d ended up sitting opposite Mike, smiling at the end of their meal. Not the worst night ever.


	6. 2006 NYE

_Several weeks later…_

 “I told you they’d be joined at the hip,” Mike said to Greg, nodding across the crowded flat. The dark head was bent to meet the blond as they talked by the mantle, body language telling the world they were one unit in two bodies.

Sherlock and John had been inseparable since the night Greg and Mike had introduced them. John moved into Sherlock’s flat the next day, quit his job and started a blog about their escapades. Greg would never admit following it, but he did, often shaking his head at the retelling of some crime scenes. It made him wonder exactly what else the two of them got up to that never made it to the blog.

In an entirely platonic way, of course.

They’d put off a flat warming until tonight, New Year’s Eve, when as far as Greg could tell, John simply texted everyone the two of them knew and invited them around. BYO everything. It was perfect, a mix of people, food and drink and the Christmas carols John was clearly still enjoying. Greg knew a few people, and met a whole lot more through Mike, who introduced him to mutual acquaintances of John’s. There were more doctors here than in the nearest hospital, Greg thought at one point, realising everyone in the conversation had a medical degree except for him.

He excused himself with the murmur of needing another drink and paused in the kitchen for a few minutes. The Christmas carols were grating a little, but it was the sudden wave of insecurity that had knocked him sideways.

Since when did he care that other people had a degree and he didn’t? He had plenty of knowledge about stuff. He shook his head, trying to clear it and think straight.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, he was drunk enough to have the kind of introspection that only comes when you’re truly honest with yourself. He knew it was because of Mike. Mike the almost-surgeon. Mike the frighteningly intelligent, kind, personable guy who everyone liked.

How the hell did Greg think he had the slightest chance with him?

It was the question that plagued him late at night, keeping him from falling asleep as he listened to his neighbours fight again about money. He was successful by most people’s standards, professionally at least. A DI before he was forty, that was quite the accomplishment, really. But he’d only finished high school, nothing more, and the conversation in the front room was several orders above his head.

He wished they’d talk about football, or even socio-legal ramifications of the latest terrorist actions in western Europe. Now that he was a bit of an expert on.

As he stood struggling not to spiral into a sad-drunk, Mike stuck his head around the corner.

“You right, pet?” he asked.

“Yeah, just coming,” Greg told him. He took a deep breath as soon as Mike had turned back and re-joined the party. Nothing to be gained by feeling sorry for himself. Wasn’t like he and Mike was going to happen anyway.

Finally someone claimed the music from John and started playing something other than carols. It was slow and dreamy, the perfect background for the roomful of quite drunk people to shuffle around to in the name of dancing. Greg was content sitting on the sofa slumped against Mike, feeling the comfortable mass of him, heat seeping into his arm.

The conversations were over, and Greg was no longer feeling inferior to Mike’s colleagues. He was comfortable.

“Dance with me,” Mike said suddenly, shifting to look at Greg.

“What?” Greg replied, caught off guard.

“Dance with me,” Mike repeated. He gestured at the room. “We’re almost the only people not dancing.” At Greg’s sceptical glance, Mike added, “if you don’t dance with me, I’d bet Mrs. Hudson will be over, and I know she gets a bit hands-y when she’s tipsy.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Greg asked, even as Mike pulled him up out of the cushions.

“John and Sherlock have both danced with her,” Mike replied, grinning as they stood toe to toe. He looked up at Greg and took his hand, the other sliding onto his upper arm in a messy rendition of a formal dance pose.

Greg’s heart was thudding against his chest at their proximity. They’d never done this, or anything like this, before. Nobody cared that it was two men dancing, but Greg felt exposed, as though everyone could see his secret desire. They moved slowly to the music, bound as much by Greg’s discomfort and inexperience as the tiny space in which they could move.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Greg murmured, suppressing a smile at the idea of the landlady getting her kicks. It was New Year’s Eve, after all.

“Can’t be long ‘til midnight,” Mike said.

Greg turned automatically to the clock on the mantle, but it was obscured by the crowd. Their dancing had slowed to a stop and they stood still, arms and hands still intertwined.

“They’ll count down,” he said, hoping to cover his pounding heart.

Turning his head had brought his face far closer to Mike, and as he had drawn breath, the scent of Mike’s cologne had overwhelmed him. Without thinking, Greg shifted a little closer, drew Mike’s hands in a little tighter. All their skin was warm, flushed from the alcohol and so many bodies in such a small flat.

Was it in his head, or did Mike’s fingers tighten on his? They were certainly closer together, and Mike was not protesting. Greg had never noticed quite how much taller he was than Mike until now – reaching top cupboards aside. His mind immediately supplied helpful information about getting the right angle for a kiss, which he immediately ignored.

Instead Greg closed his eyes, concentrating instead on the music. He started moving again, shifting his weight in time, bringing Mike with him.

Unfortunately the lyrics were not at all helpful. It was some kind of jazz standard. A smooth tenor was crooning something about making lovers from friends – not exactly what Greg wanted to focus on right now. He shifted his hands, trying to still his breathing so his heart would slow, but the definite pull of his hands towards Mike’s chest brought the stuttering cardiac rhythm back to the fore. He was ignoring the heat from Mike’s body so close, the spark whenever their fingers slid together, the familiar smell of Mike’s cologne and laundry powder, now heady and strong as they swayed.

There was definitely something. The kind of something that usually lead to a kiss, if nobody interrupted it, and often quite a lot more. Even a kiss would be catastrophic, tipping the delicate balance of their relationship over, perhaps irreparably. He didn’t have to worry about anything more than a kiss right now, but Greg realised with a slight note of panic that any second, the people around them would literally start to count down. And at the end he would be more or less expected to kiss someone.

Probably Mike.

Fuck.

Unconsciously he gripped tighter, no ideas coming to him as to the best way to get out of this.

To his relief and panic, Mike pulled away. “Could do with a drink, I reckon,” he said, not meeting Greg’s eyes and looking supremely uncomfortable.

_Does he feel it too?_

Greg followed him into the kitchen.

Mike made no effort to find glasses, instead stopping on the far side of the room, eyes pinned to Greg. His expression stopped Greg in his tracks. He was apprehensive, and in the moment their eyes locked, Greg knew that Mike had felt it too. That was what he was running away from, the inevitable change if they let this – any of this – happen. This was what he had warned Greg against at their accidental date, when Sherlock and John had bailed on them both.

_You can’t be friends with someone you’ve slept with._

Greg’s own voice slithered down his spine. Was that what was worrying Mike? Was he that uninterested in Greg? His expression was certainly not eager.

But it wasn’t quite the same as ‘I’m not interested’.

Apprehensive but intrigued, interested, excited by the idea. Exactly what was flowing through Greg. He wondered what would win inside Mike.

Apprehension won out.

“We can’t,” Mike whispered, and despite the ruckus from the sitting room, Greg heard his voice break, heard the pleading note from across the kitchen. As they looked at each other, there was some kind of chanting, Greg realised. Not until the sound of fireworks outside, and party poppers and cheering inside, did he realise.

“Happy New Year,” he said quietly to Mike, offering a tentative smile without moving.

“Happy New Year,” Mike replied by rote. His eyes relaxed though, and he almost smiled.

Greg hesitantly closed the distance, opening his arms, offering a hug.

Mike nodded, shoulders sagging in relief.

They hugged, a careful press of bodies, avoiding the prickly not-quite of whatever had been avoided earlier. When Sherlock, drunk as a lord, burst into the kitchen, they jumped apart, looking at him.

“Did’ja kiss at midnight?” Sherlock slurred, leering at them.

“No,” Mike told him.

“Aaaah, c’mon, you’ve gotta,” Sherlock whined.

As if things weren’t mortifying enough, John came in, also drunk, and backed up Sherlock. Apparently he was hilarious.

Might be easier to just do it, Greg thought.

He looked at Mike, raised his eyebrows questioningly. Mike looked at him for a long beat, then nodded.

Greg found his hand and squeezed a reassurance.

“Alright, Sherlock!” he said, raising his voice to be heard over Sherlock’s complaining. Before either of them could lose their nerve, Greg leaned down, pressing a soft chaste kiss to Mike’s mouth.

They both pulled back immediately, offering tight smiles as they met each other’s gaze again.

 _Christ, this is excruciating_ , Greg thought miserably. _Exactly why I had kept this to myself for so long._

Midnight had chimed and people started leaving soon after. Greg and Mike hung around just long enough to be sure John and Sherlock found a flat surface to sleep on and to see to the fire before leaving. There was no chance they’d get a taxi at 1am on New Year’s, so they elected to walk.

Even drunk, even in the noisy darkness of New Year’s Eve, Greg could feel Mike sneaking looks at him. He was doing the same, of course, and wondered what would happen if they looked at the same time.

He didn’t want to know.


	7. 2007

_New Year, new resolution. Going out on a date next Friday. - Mike_

 

Greg stared at his phone, fingers gripping the case tight.

He couldn’t be angry about this. Mike was entitled to date. They’d both ignored most of what happened on New Year’s Eve, electing to slide back into their tacit understanding instead.

Taking a deep breath, Greg made the call.

“Hey,” Mike answered.

“Hey,” Greg replied. Hearing the murmur of the TV in the background he asked automatically, “what’re you watching?”

“Casablanca,” Mike replied. “BBC2.”

“So, next Friday, then?” Greg asked, flicking his TV to BBC2, watching Victor Laszlo and Ilsa board the plane to Lisbon.

“Yeah,” Mike said. There was something hesitant in his tone, and Greg immediate berated himself for his earlier thoughts. He should be supporting Mike.

Ignoring the whisper of discomfort up his spine, Greg said, “Where’d you meet him?”

“At the Cock and Lion,” Mike said. “Last week, watching the match.”

Greg nodded, absently watching Humphrey Bogart’s face, barely hearing the familiar lines. Mike often drank after work at the Geordie friendly pub when the Magpies were playing. They’d have that in common, then.

“That’s good,” Greg said, wincing at the obvious effort in his voice. “Where d’you think you’ll go?”

“Dinner at Angelo’s,” Mike replied. “I don’t know, we probably don’t have much in common, but he was nice, so…”

Greg could hear the shrug after the self-deprecating comments.

“I’m sure you’ll find something to talk about,” Greg replied. “You’re a well-educated, kind, funny guy with a heart of gold, remember?”

“Yeah,” Mike sighed. It was unconvincing to say the least, but Greg let it slide as they watched the last scene of _Casablanca_ play out.

“Well, I’m for bed, then,” Mike said, yawning as the credits began to roll.

“I’m not really sleepy,” Greg said. He sighed. “Maybe I’m getting a tumour or something.”

“You do not have a tumour,” Mike told him automatically.

“How do you know?” Greg asked him.

“You never do,” Mike replied. “What will you do, if you’re not sleeping?”

“Moan. If I’m going to have to deal with a brain tumour, I’ll need to be good at moaning.”

“Go to sleep, Greg.” The voice was quietly amused.

“Right,” Greg said, and they rang off.

He wandered through various channels for a while, moaning at the terrible offerings. Nothing really appealed enough to tempt his brain away from its obsession with Mike and his upcoming date.

+++

_So how did it go? - Greg_

 

_Magpies lost 3-1. - Mike_

 

_That is NOT what I meant. - Greg_

 

_I_ _know. Not great. - Mike_

 

_Second date or not? - Greg_

 

_Probably not. - Mike_

 

_I’m sorry._

_You’ll find someone. - Greg_

 

_Eventually. - Mike_

 

_Takeaway and a film?_

_Haven’t seen Die Hard in a while. - Greg_

 

_Not Die Hard, Greg. - Mike_

 

_Oh come on, you love Bruce crawling around in his undershirt. - Greg_

 

_You only say that because he’s a copper. - Mike_

 

_Yes, and all coppers look good crawling around in our undershirts._

_It’s the first thing we learn at the Academy. - Greg_

 

_Of  course it is, pet. - Mike_

 

_Are you smiling?_

_Bet you a fiver you are. - Greg_

 

_No._

_Maybe._

_Thank you._

_See you at 6 at mine. - Mike_

 

+++

 

“Greg?”

Mike’s voice was concerned as Greg tried to control his breathing.

“Mike.” He managed the one syllable before his voice broke.

“Are you…what’s going on?” Mike’s voice has ramped up from concerned to worried.

“Hang on,” Greg said thickly. He hung up and texted instead.

_Laura’s getting married. - Greg_

_I’m coming over. - Mike_

 

Greg nodded at his phone, the tears coming again as he blinked wetly at the reply.

Mike must not have wasted any time – he arrived ten minutes later at Greg’s door in worn jeans and a jumper. As Greg opened the door he tilted his head, face the very image of empathy.

“I was over her,” Greg greeted Mike tearily, leaving the door open for his friend as he went once again in search of tissues.

“I know,” Mike replied, closing the door behind himself. “What happened?”

“Ran into...her. At a Starbuck’s. I never go to Starbuck’s. And she asked how I was, and I said fine, how are you, and she waved this huge diamond in my face.” Greg wiggled the fingers of his left hand at Mike, his face crumpling as he remembered the moment. He trailed into his bedroom, hearing Mike follow as he flopped back onto his bed. The bed sagged as Mike followed him, passing tissues.

 “I thought she didn’t want to get married,” he mumbled miserably, “but the truth is, she didn’t want to marry me.”

 “If you could take her back right now, would you?” asked Mike.

“No,” Greg said without thinking. “But why didn’t she want to marry me?”

“I have no idea,” Mike said. “She’s clearly an idiot.”

Greg barely heard Mike, he was so wrapped up in his own head. “It’s because I work all the time,” he said.

“No, it’s not,” Mike murmured.

“I’m too laid back, she wants a bloke that takes charge,” Greg said.

“You can’t change who you are to please someone,” Mike reminded him.

“Maybe if I’d dyed my hair,” Greg mumbled.

Mike’s soft chuckle wasn’t derisive, but somehow made Greg feel better. He knew it was ridiculous to blame his hair. He felt pathetic, not only for his surprising reaction to the news, but for showing Mike how deep his misery really went. He was over Laura. He wasn’t over the rejection he felt, or the worthlessness that gnawed at his heart.

Mike didn’t say anything. They lay on Greg’s bed for a long while, Mike occasionally passing a tissue over, until Greg finally sighed.

“Oh God, I’m going to be forty.”

“What?” Mike said, startled. “When?”

“In…a while.”

“It’s not that soon, pet.” Mike’s voice was amused. “Years away.”

Greg had to admit he had a point. He felt calmer, just having Mike here. He sat up and looked over as Mike sat up too.

“Thanks,” Greg said, turning and hugging his friend.

“Of course, Greg,” Mike said.

His breath was hot on Greg’s neck, and the tingle seemed to spread from that place on his skin throughout his body. He stilled, and felt Mike do the same. The air changed, fizzled as they held each other.

Oh fuck, Greg thought, as they pulled apart a little, it’s happening again.

He and Mike were close now, looking at each other. He could feel his gaze drifting down, lingering on Mike’s mouth before moving up again, watching as Mike’s eyes drifted too. The atmosphere was heavy, all of a sudden, and Greg knew what was going to happen. They moved in slow motion, Greg’s heart thumping.

Half his mind was screaming at him that this was a bad idea.

That thought was obliterated when his lips and Mike’s settled together. It was gentle, and neither of them moved right away. It felt as though they were made for each other. Soft and warm, Greg almost whimpered at how right it felt, Mike’s shoulders under his hands, shuddering breath rolling over his cheek as Mike breathed.

_You can’t be friends with someone you’ve slept with._

A surge of uncertainty passed through Greg, and he pulled back a little, opening his eyes to look at Mike, but the blue eyes were closed, the distance he’d created rapidly disappearing as Mike leaned in again, seeking Greg once again.

It was heaven, and Greg was only human. A sad human in need of comfort, and Mike was there. Kissing him. Whimpering as Greg’s lips parted for him.

Gasping when Greg’s hands rose hesitantly to his face.

“Please…” Mike whimpered. “Put your hands on me…please, Greg…”

Greg let go of his doubt.

He kissed Mike harder, rolling them over onto the bed, running his hands over the acres of soft body waiting for him.

+++

Greg must have slept at least a little – probably a lot. It was past dawn, and he was lying in his bed, Mike curled against him. His arm was wrapped around Mike’s shoulder, an automatic position. He stared at the ceiling. Funny, he’d never noticed the lighter patch of paint in the corner. Had there been mould at some point?

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he and Mike had just ruined their friendship.

Probably.

It had been a mistake.

And he had no idea how to fix it.

The thoughts rattled around in his head as he stared at his ceiling. Mike was sleeping, breathing slowly and deeply, and Greg certainly didn’t want to him. It was kind of nice, except for the screaming voice in his head telling him how badly they’d fucked up.

Mike shifted suddenly, stretching, turning his face up to smile blearily at Greg. “Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” Greg replied.

Mike stretched up to kiss Greg, then rolled over, reaching for his glasses. Greg’s heart was thumping hard, but it stuttered a little when Mike pulled his shirt on before allowing the sheet to fall away. He was still so self-conscious. Part of Greg wanted to pull him back to bed, show him how desirable he really was.

But it would be a _mistake_ , Greg told himself. They needed to get this over with and just go back to being friends as soon as possible.

“Are you working today?” Mike asked, pulling the legs of his jeans the right way around.

“I am,” Greg replied, seizing the excuse. “Early start, actually.”

Mike paused as he was working on the button of his jeans. His eyes met Greg, searching for something. Whatever he was looking for, Greg couldn’t tell if he found it or not.

Either way, he nodded slowly. “I’ll let you get ready, then,” he said.

“Okay,” Greg replied tightly. They moved around each other stiffly, Mike collecting his things while Greg looked on uncomfortably.

“Have a good day at work,” Mike said.

“Yes, you too,” Greg told him. There was an excruciating pause, the ‘will we hug or kiss or anything at all’ moment.

“See you soon,” Mike said.

“Yeah, I’ll give you a call,” Greg said, forcing a smile.

As soon as Mike stepped outside, Greg grabbed his phone. He had no idea who to call, so thumbed the first number he could find.

“What is it, Graham?” Sherlock’s voice was gruff with sleep.

“Hi, Sherlock,” Greg said. He could hear a mobile ringing in the background, but bore it no mind. “You have a second?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “I’ve been lying here all night waiting for you to call.”

Greg ignored it. It was his own fault for calling Sherlock so early and expecting courtesy.

“The thing is,” Greg said, swallowing, “Mike and I slept together last night.”

“Well, that was completely expected,” Sherlock replied smugly. “For all the times someone’s pointed out the compatibility between John and I, you and Mike are a sure thing.”

“Yeah, well it was weird this morning. He just…left,” Greg said, wondering why he was talking to Sherlock about this.

“Of course he did,” Sherlock replied. “Unless you wanted to go again, what was the point in him staying?”

“Right, thanks,” Greg said, offended. From the sounds of it, John had hit Sherlock, which made Greg feel marginally better.

“Why don’t you come over here?” Sherlock asked, clearly aware he’d crossed some kind of line.

“No,” Greg said, “I’m not really in the mood for company.” He thought he heard Sherlock give a sigh of relief.

“Okay,” Sherlock replied. “Was there anything else?”

“No,” Greg said. They hung up, and he thought for a moment. On a whim, he tried to call John, but it diverted to his voicemail. No luck there. Bastard was probably in the midst of a glorious morning shag already, Greg thought bitterly. Bastard.

He walked back through his flat, collecting used tissues and binning them. There was no escaping it. He’d have to talk to Mike eventually. They would have to find some way to get through this, either as friends or – Greg’s heart stuttered at this option – as more.

No. Friends. They were friends. Mike had been dating, for Christ’s sake, he wasn’t interested in a relationship with Greg. Even after what had almost happened on New Year’s Eve.

Right. He’d wait a day or two and call Mike, they’d have lunch, agree it was a mistake, things would be fine.

He hoped Mike said it first.

+++

They did have lunch, eventually, at the café Mike liked near Bart’s. Meeting for lunch was a bit of a cop out; they both had to go back to work in under an hour. It was more awkward because they both knew it. What a fucking disaster, Greg thought as they sat down.

 _Please say it was a mistake_.

“It was a mistake,” Mike blurted with a slight smile, as though it wasn’t a big deal. As though he’d ordered his fish fried instead of grilled. No big deal.

“Yes,” Greg said, relieved. “A mistake.”

“We’ll just be friends,” Mike added, and Greg nodded fervently.

“Friends,” he repeated. He didn’t feel better. Why didn’t he feel better? It just needed time, he thought to himself, stealing a glance at Mike. They sat in silence, sipping at their drinks, glancing at each other and out the window. Smiling a little too widely when their gazes met.

Nothing like they usually were.

“It’s so nice to be able to sit without talking,” Greg said, more to fill the silence than anything.

“It is,” Mike said. Greg made to reach over and take the olives from Mike’s salad, but stopped, pulling his hand back. He would have done it last week without thinking. Hell, Mike had stopped asking for no olives when he realised Greg liked them so much – it was a thing between them. A mark of their easy friendship, that Mike assumed Greg would eat his olives, and Greg didn’t even ask anymore.

Until now.

The rest of the conversion was stilted. They talked about the weather, and the football, work and John and Sherlock. Nothing of any depth. Nothing he wouldn’t talk about with his mother, Greg thought miserably. He watched Mike’s eyes, usually so bright and caring, skitter off his own, uncomfortable and sad.

It broke his fucking heart.

They split the bill and said their goodbyes without making further plans. Greg watched Mike leave, shoulders hunched against the cold. It was just part of getting past the weirdness, he told himself. They’d be back to normal soon.

But when he decided to watch Casablanca that night, he didn’t call Mike. Mike loved this movie, and was always up for watching it together, but it felt wrong.

So Greg watched alone.

As Ugarte was arrested, he remembered Mike’s teasing comment about the lack of arrest protocol in wartime Morocco.

As he watched Ilsa convince Sam to play ‘As Time Goes By’, he wondered if Mike was tearing up, too – and remembered he wasn’t even watching.

As Rick persuaded Renault to release Laszlo, he could hear Mike’s voice teasing him about the corruptibility of the police force.

And as Rick spoke at the end, Greg’s lips moved along with his. “You’ll regret it. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow but soon, and for the rest of your life.”

Fuck.

There was no way things would be the same. They might restore their friendship, to some level, but if Greg wasn’t even going to call Mike now, lying in bed and watching their favourite movie, something was seriously wrong.

Steeling himself, Greg sent a text. It was a compromise between the cowardly not-calling and the grown up actually-calling, but it was as close as he could manage.

 

_Casablanca, DVD. You in?_

 

It was marked read immediately. He waited in vain for the dancing bubble to show a reply was being written, but none came. Greg started the movie again, in case Mike replied.

An hour and forty two minutes later, credits rolling, Greg shut his laptop and slid down to sleep, not even bothering to turn out the lights properly.

His phone lay on the other pillow, the message thread open.

Still no reply.


	8. 2007 NYE

Over the coming weeks, Greg tried to contact Mike several times a day. He restricted himself to sending messages and making phone calls, torn between wanting to see him, to actually talk about the implosion of their friendship, and wanting to give the man his space. Showing up at his place was a step too far by any standards, no matter how desperate he was.

 

_Saw this, thought of you. Who knew you could get a Newcastle fancy dress?_

_New kid at work quoted ‘Play it again, Sam’ at me today. Had to school him on the classics!_

_Look, I really think we should talk._

_I hope your students do well this exam week._

_Sherlock said he saw you at work the other day. Hope he didn’t deduce you in front of your students again._

_Go Magpies! You trounced the Wanderers!_

 

None of his phone calls were answered; his voicemails weren’t returned. The only reply he garnered was short and to the point.

_We have nothing to talk about, Greg._

 

 _I think we do_ , Greg had replied, heart in his mouth.

It was three hours until Mike replied.

_We slept together. It was a mistake. Two people can’t be friends after they sleep together, remember?_

 

Greg had never regretted words more than those he’d spouted as a naïve kid all those years ago. He didn’t know then that being friends with someone you wanted to sleep with – again – was better than never seeing them again. Better than knowing they were walking around the same city, watching the same movie, only without you. You without them. He cursed savagely, grateful for the empty office at this unsociable hour.

The silver edge of an envelope stuck out from the edge of his desk, and he picked it up, staring morosely at the florid script inviting him to John and Sherlock’s wedding. John had hand delivered it, carefully pointing out that it was a small affair at lunchtime on a Thursday, so if Greg had to work, he and Sherlock would understand. The out he was giving Greg was obvious but embarrassing, so Greg just thanked him. The implication was clear.

Mike would be there.

Greg was still undecided if he would attend. On one hand, he and Sherlock had built some kind of working friendship in the past months. John seemed to be rubbing the roughest of the edges off the detective. John had become a kind of friend-once-removed, too – someone Greg would happily chat to when the four of them went out somewhere, but not someone he’d call for advice. Usually.

It would be rude to avoid it.

It would be agony to attend.

But Mike would be there, and it might give Greg a chance to talk to him. Captive audience, he thought. He was slightly uncomfortable with the idea of blindsiding Mike – could he still say ‘my friend’? – but increasingly desperate to speak to him.

+++

So Greg found himself taking personal leave on the Thursday before Christmas. He’d put on his best suit and the tie Mike had bought him for the previous Christmas, self-conscious but defiant – it was his favourite, why shouldn’t he wear it? The ceremony was at the registry office, with lunch after at Angelo’s, open especially for the small group. Greg recognised almost everyone except the respective families.

Mike looked wonderful and miserable at the same time. He met Greg’s eyes only once, offering a vacant smile before allowing his eyes to slide past. Greg swallowed hard. This was going to be far more difficult than he imagined. The vows came and went without him even noticing, eyes watching Mike instead.

Only the applause brought Greg back to the present, and he brought his hands together, joining in as the clapping faded and a murmur of conversation broke out. He turned to the woman next to him who appeared to know nobody and introduced himself, desperate not to look lonely.

She was John’s sister, as it turned out. Just the two of them, parents both gone, Greg learned. He listened to her talk about John as he watched Mike stand alone on the other side of the room, clearly wishing to leave. He ached to go and speak to him, to lean his head down and murmur some kind of inside joke, something that would make Mike’s eyes dance again. Make him smile.

“Are you coming, Greg?” Harry asks, and he looks over at her.

“Yeah, sorry,” he replied, forcing a smile. “Do you know where Angelo’s is?”

“No,” Harry replied. “Perhaps we could share a cab.”

“Sure,” Greg said. He’d been hoping to convince Mike to share, but he couldn’t be so rude to Harry. The woman knew nobody else but John, for God’s sake.

They talked on the way over, Greg telling several stories about Harry’s new brother-in-law that made her laugh in delight.

“He’ll hate me knowing that, won’t he?” she asked him.

“Kind of, yeah,” Greg smiled.

When they got out of the cab, his heart skipped as he saw Mike climbing out of the cab immediately behind them.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Greg said to Harry. He could almost feel her deflate beside him, and silently apologised even as he headed in Mike’s direction.

“Mike,” Greg said, approaching him before he could walk in the door. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Mike replied. It was possible he could sound less enthusiastic, Greg thought, but he’d have to be dead to do so.

“Beautiful ceremony,” Greg said gamely.

“Lovely,” Mike said stiffly. He made no attempt to add to the conversation, neither did he try to leave. Greg took a deep breath and tried once more.

“I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas again,” he said, hoping even for meaningless small talk. Anything to get the conversation going. “Seems like I only just recovered from the last one.”

Mike nodded.

“So how are you?” Greg asked.

“Fine.”

“Are you…have you been seeing any one?” Greg asked desperately.

“Look, Greg,” Mike said, “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Why not?” Greg said, his heart beating faster. They were finally having this conversation….

“I just don’t want to talk about it!” Mike said, his eyes serious. He pushed his glasses up with one finger, and Greg’s heart ached at the familiar gesture. He turned to walk into the restaurant, but Greg followed, determined for them to finally have it out.

Mike walked inside, but seeing Greg behind him, walked through the restaurant and into the kitchen. Without thinking, Greg followed.

“Come on Mike, are we going to carry this thing around forever?”

“It just happened!” Mike replied.

“It happened three weeks ago!” Greg exclaimed. “We could have talked about it and gotten right past it by now, but you wouldn’t talk to me!”

“I wouldn’t talk…” Mike repeated. “I’m trying to figure out what this even means!” he moved one hand between them.

“You’re pretending it doesn’t mean anything!”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t mean anything,” Greg said, exasperated, “I’m just saying why does it have to mean everything?”

“You should know more than anyone!” Mike replied. “You’re the one that made it clear I should go. You’re the one with the theory about people not staying friends with people they’ve slept with!”

“We both agreed it was a mistake!” Greg exclaimed. _God, he’d never live that bloody conversation down._

“It was,” Mike agreed. They paused. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you!” Greg said. “But let’s just get one thing straight. I asked you to come over to my flat that night as my friend. I did not ask you to lie down on my bed, or to kiss me, or beg me to put my hands on you!” he threw his hands up. “What was I supposed to do?”

Mike looked at him, eyes wide. “What, are you implying I took _pity_ on you? And now I’m the one wanting…” he stopped, lips pressed together.

“Wanting what?” Greg asked.

“Fuck you, Greg,” Mike said, his voice thick with emotion.

For a second, Greg thought Mike was going to slap him – but he didn’t.

He walked out of the kitchen.

With a sigh, Greg followed, only to almost run into Mike, who’d stopped in the restaurant, the whole crowd looking at him with an affectionate smile.

“…if John or I had found either of them remotely attractive, we wouldn’t be here today!” Sherlock was saying, his baritone booming over the crowd without need for a microphone.

Greg tried to smile, feeling the tension coming off Mike in waves. Neither looked at each other.

His pocket buzzed, and Greg grasped at the excuse with both hands. He’d had never been so happy for some poor bastard to have been killed in his life. He threw an apologetic look at John as he left, heart heavy.

+++

How was it New Year’s again already? Greg thought as he sat on his couch watching a re-run of the football from earlier in the year. He didn’t even know when it was from, which didn’t matter because he wasn’t really watching anyway.

The jaffa cakes were half gone, as was the beer he’d been half-heartedly sipping from all night.

_What a fucking loser I am._

Sherlock and John had invited him over, but the carefully crafted phrasing made it clear they’d invited a few people. Mike would inevitably be there, which would be awkward for everyone. It was easier if Greg just…didn’t.

So he was sitting here, miserable as anything, watching two teams he didn’t care about kick a ball up and down the field. Eating stale jaffa cakes and drinking warm beer.

_Gotta get out of here._

He wondered what Mike was doing. _Probably at Baker Street already._ Drinking a beer, joking with John.

Was he sad at all? Thinking about last New Year’s, when they’d both been at Baker Street? Talking. Dancing. They’d danced in John and Sherlock’s sitting room, and kissed in their kitchen. Under duress, but still.

That was when it started, Greg thought. He’d always had a soft spot for Mike, wondered what it would be like to date him. Been disappointed when he mentioned past girlfriends, unreasonably relieved when relationships didn’t work out.

But that night, that year ago almost to the hour, was when he knew Mike felt it too.

It was the beginning of the end, Greg thought sadly.

Idly he bought a donut from the vendor on the corner. It was chocolate, his favourite, but he wasn’t that interested. Chucking the rest in the bin, a sound caught his ear, and he watched a couple laugh on the other side of the street, hanging onto each other, wide smiles proclaiming their happiness to anyone who saw them.

Why couldn’t we be like that? Greg thought.

Happy.

In love.

He was walking down the street, hands shoved deep into his jeans’ pockets when the realisation came to him, and he slowed. He was standing on the same street he’d met Mike all those year ago. His mind supplied the image of police tape, the rain on the street that night, and an earnest young medical student with a kind face…

A certainty filled Greg, calming the turmoil inside him.

He loved Mike.

Really loved him. More than lust – though that was clearly a factor. He _knew_ Mike. Knew his faults, the little quirks that drove him crazy and yet made him smile because that was Mike.

He knew how precisely Mike lined up his phone, watch and keys on the table inside his front door. How Mike never liked the ending of Casablanca, but watched it because he knew Greg liked it. He knew how much it had hurt when he’d been rejected from the surgery program, how it had made him question himself. How difficult it had been to return to London, to go back to ER work to make ends meet. Greg knew how sensitive Mike was about his weight, despite his self-deprecating jokes.

How much Mike wanted to find someone to love him.

Greg loved him. Greg _loved_ him, and the admission gave the idea life, allowing it to roar through his veins, light him from the inside as one thought careened around his head.

 _I have to go to Mike._ Now. Right now.

_Baker Street._

Without thinking Greg began to run, hoping against hope he might find a cab at twenty minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve.

Impossible, of course.

So he half-ran, half-walked, arriving out of breath to knock frantically on the door of 221 Baker Street.

It swung open, a vaguely familiar woman clutching a bottle of champagne grinning blankly at him as she weaved back up the stairs.

Greg took a second to catch his breath before racing up the stairs. He found himself on the landing, wondering what the hell he was going to say.

As his brain raced, Mike came around the corner, turned away, talking to John.

“I just…I have to go,” he was saying. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

John saw Greg first, and his changing expression made Mike turn.

He looked right at Greg.

Blue eyes, Greg thought. His eyes.

Greg had braced himself for a brush off, but this was unexpected.

Mike looked vulnerable. Speechless that Greg was here, eyes wide as though waiting for him to say something important.

Greg swallowed, and he saw Mike pull himself up, gathering his defences for the conversation.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Greg said, and the words slipped out. “And the thing is, I love you.”

“You what?”

“I love you.”

“How do you expect me to respond to this?” Mike replied, frowning. Greg could see the effort behind Mike’s façade, and his heart cracked, allowing hope to seep in.

“How about you love me too?” Greg asked.

“I’m sorry Greg…” Mike said, his voice breaking, “I know it’s New Year’s Eve, I know you’re feeling lonely, but you just can’t show up here and tell me you love me and expect that to make everything all right! It doesn’t work this way.”

“Well, how does it work?” Greg asked, exasperated.

“I don’t know but not this way,” Mike replied, trying to move around Greg.

“Well how about this way?” Greg said, his frustration bubbling up. He stepped in Mike’s way, blocking him from descending the stairs.

“I love that you put everything into your teaching even though it’s not what you really wanted to do. I love that you listen to the waiter recite the entire specials list even though you already know what you want to order. I love that you get a little dimple in your cheek when you’re grinning at me like I’m the funniest bloke in the world. I love that after I spend a day with you I can still smell your cologne on my clothes, and I love that you’re the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night.

“And it’s not because it’s not because I’m lonely and it’s not because it’s New Years’ Eve. I came here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

Mike was looking at him now with a gentle tilt of his head, soft affection in his eyes. As Greg stopped speaking, he seemed to come back to himself, tears in his eyes as he looked up at Greg.

“That is just like you, Greg. You say things like that and you make it impossible to hate you.”

Greg’s heart imploded. Mike’s words and his face were at complete odds. The emotion in his voice told Greg everything he needed to know. The words were the last gasp of Mike’s defences against himself. The last denial of what Greg knew had been brewing inside both of them for a long, long time.

“And I hate you, Greg. I hate you.”

Greg was already smiling before Mike had finished, his voice catching on the last phrase. Without thinking he stepped in, kissing Mike, feeling Mike’s arms sweep around him as his heart beat _finally, finally, finally._

As they came apart, foreheads pressing together, Greg registered the noise from inside the flat.

“Must be a new year,” he murmured, wiping a thumb across Mike’s face where tears had tracked down his flushed cheeks.

“A new start,” Mike whispered.

“And it only took us what, three weeks to get ourselves sorted,” Greg smiled, joy flowing through him.

“Mmmm,” Mike disagreed. “twelve years and three weeks.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied, not caring at all about the details. He glanced up to see a grinning John give him the thumbs up before melting back into the crowd.

“So,” Greg said. “Since we’re no longer friends…”

Mike looked at him. “Yes?”

“I suppose the sex won’t get in the way anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter! Can't believe this is done now. It was a lot of fun figuring out Mike and Greg's stories, having their lives brush up against each other over the years. Plus all the WHMS watching I had to do to have things line up.  
> Thank you again to siriusblue for their beta work, I really appreciate it. I love being on this tiny little ship with you and all our Stamstrade friends! <3


	9. BONUS SCENE: Interviews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, if you've seen WHMS you know that throughout the movie, they show interviews of couples talking about how they met. I thought that would be fun, but it didn't work throughout this story. I still wanted to share, though, so here they are.

Video Interview: Mike and Greg 

_This interview was to go immediately before the story began, hence its slightly odd end when read as a standalone._  

“How did we meet?” Mike repeated the question, looking at his new husband.

“You tell them,” Greg said indulgently.

“Well, it’s a long story,” Mike replied, though he was looking at Greg as he spoke.

“Come on,” a nameless voice said from behind the camera, “We’re asking everyone that’s here. All the couples are gonna do it. You two have to – it’s your wedding!”

Mike shrugged. “When we first met I don’t think Greg liked me.”

“I liked you!” Greg objected.

“Not at first,” Mike replied. “You thought I’d blown up a bridge, from the look on your face.”

“No, no,” Greg corrected him. “I was working.”

“Then we met again,” Mike continued, only a tiny smile acknowledging Greg’s attempt to redeem himself.

“We did,” Greg said. “I don’t think you liked me then.”

“I don’t think I did in the middle,” Mike said, “but I did again by the middle…”

“Okay, okay,” the faceless voice said again, “you’re going to have to start from the top. Greg, you tell it.”

“Right,” Greg said, leaning forward.

 

Video Interview: John and Sherlock

“It was a blind date.”

“A double blind date,” John added.

“A ridiculous concept. Clearly there was no basis for Mike and I to form an attraction, and as for Greg and John,” Sherlock made a rude noise.

“We’re both just lucky it was a double date,” John said, “and we were both there.”

“You had your cane.”

“I did.”

“You left it at the restaurant, though,” Sherlock said, satisfaction in his voice.

“You said ‘could be dangerous,’” John replied, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

 

Video Interview: Molly and Jim

“Oh we met at work!” Molly said brightly. “Only been going out a few weeks. Jim’s new in IT. He’s been showing me the new email protocols.”

“And Jim, why did you ask Molly out?” the voice asked.

“She’s pretty,” Jim replied, looking at Molly. “I like pretty things.”

He ducked his head bashfully, and Molly beamed, leaning into him.

“I think he’s the one,” she whispered sotto-voce into the camera. “Are we done, then?”

 

Video Interview: Sally and Harry

“John introduced us,” Sally said. “Harry is John’s sister.”

“For my sins,” Harry added uncomfortably, twisting her fingers together.

“No,” Sally said patiently, “Not for your sins. You’re an angel.”

They smiled at the inside joke, eyes locked on each other, and Harry visibly relaxed, her fingers slowing in her lap.

“Sally was seeing someone…difficult,” Harry said quietly, “and John thought she could do better.”

“Turns out I could,” Sally added, looking fondly at Harry. “Turns out I won the lottery.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - how funny that there's a 'Sally and Harry' that could happen in that universe, too!


End file.
